21st Birthday (Women's Murder Club)

by James Patterson

  Kathleen handed the picture of Tara and Lorrie to Cindy, who snapped it with her phone. She told Kathleen that she could run it with a request for information as to the pair’s whereabouts without mentioning Lucas Burke.

  Tugging at her watch cap, Kathleen muttered a thank-you as Cindy walked her out to the elevator. Cindy walked back to her office, wondering why Kathleen Wyatt had come to her. Was she right about her son-in-law? Or was Kathleen Wyatt just paranoid?

  CHAPTER 4

  I’D BEEN AT MY DESK since seven Tuesday morning.

  It was now eight thirty. I wanted to get some answers for Kathleen Wyatt before the nine a.m. all-hands meeting Lieutenant Jackson Brady had called. As the mother of a daughter myself, I felt an extra urgency.

  My partner, Inspector Richard Conklin, and I sit at facing desks, at the front of the dull gray Homicide bullpen. He’d just arrived, but when Rich heard me talking to Lieutenant Murry over the phone, he went to the break room to get coffee.

  Rich knew I was doing a favor for Cindy, his live-in love and my friend. When he got back to his desk, I thanked Murry, hung up, and Conklin pushed a fresh mug of mud over to my desk. It was black, three sugars, just how I like it.

  “Boxer. What did Murry say?”

  “He said that Lucas Burke is a bad dude, but he doesn’t think he’s a killer.”

  “How bad?”

  I blew on my coffee, then referred to my notes.

  “Last year, Lucas threatened a female motorist after a fender bender, grabbed her shoulders, called her names, and shook her. He was taken in for assault and battery but the motorist didn’t press charges.

  “A few months later, Lucas took a chain saw to a neighbor’s tree he claimed was on his property. It was not. He got fined eight hundred dollars. End of that.

  “Then, Kathleen reported him for domestic abuse of her daughter, but Tara denied it, said her mother was nuts. Kathleen is a little loosely wrapped, Richie. Which makes her hard to read. But it’s also true that abused women often deny the abuse.

  “Anyway, that’s Lucas Burke’s record. He’s at least combative.”

  I called Cindy and sipped coffee while Rich walked over to Sergeant Cappy O’Neil’s desk, sat on the edge of, it and traded what-ifs with him and Sergeant Paul Chi. I could hear them opining on the upcoming meeting, but there was little controversy. We were all of the same opinion. Brady was going to announce his future plans. But what had he decided to do?

  The root of the matter was the scandal that had devastated the Southern Station, our station, not long ago. Lieutenant Ted Swanson of Robbery had enlisted two teams of bad cops to knock off drug dealers and payday loan joints for cash. Eighteen people died in several shoot-outs, and even Swanson took enough lead to kill him two or three times over. But he survived his injuries and was now serving out the rest of his worthless life at Chino, a maximum-security prison.

  Warren Jacobi, our friend, my former partner, and at that time chief of police, had to take the fall. He was retired out, and Jackson Brady, our good lieutenant, picked up the slack for Jacobi, simultaneously running Homicide and the Southern Station. When asked to choose which job he wanted, he’d put off the decision. Maybe he took too long. Lately, rumor had it that the mayor was having talks with Stefan Rowan, a heavyweight organized-crime commander from New York.

  I loved working for Brady. He was smart. He never asked anyone to do anything he wouldn’t do. He was brave. And he was loyal to the people who reported to him.

  What scared me most was that the rumor might be wrong. That Brady was going to step up to become chief of police, and the hard-ass New Yorker would replace him as Homicide CO.

  Maybe a promotion would be good for Brady, but speaking for myself, it would break my heart.

  CHAPTER 5

  I LOOKED PAST CONKLIN and saw Brady leave his office in the back corner of the squad room. He put on his jacket and headed up the center aisle toward the front of the room. Conklin got up from Cappy’s desk as Brady passed and joined me at our desks.

  Brady took the floor, his blond-white hair pulled back in a pony, his denim shirt tucked in, his dark jacket unbuttoned. I couldn’t read his expression.

  Brady took center stage at the front of the squad room, facing the dozen Homicide cops from the day shift, another dozen cops from the night shift, and more were coming in. Cops from other departments leaned against the walls, sat in empty chairs, or perched on the corners of desks, all quietly waiting for Brady to drop a bomb.

  When the anticipation had stretched so thin it was starting to thrum, Brady said, “I know the wait time has been hard on everyone. I did my best to hold things together with your help. My wife says I look like I’ve been dragged behind a car. To tell the truth, I feel a little like that, but I was of two minds.

  “Now, y’all know I’ve been running up and down the stairs, changing hats in the landing. I was asked to choose, fourth floor or fifth, but if I coulda kept doing both jobs, I woulda done it. But in the interest of safety, public good and welfare, and living to see my forty-fifth birthday, I’ve decided to hang my hat in Homicide.”

  Big sigh of relief from me, and a spontaneous round of raucous applause and hooting from the squad.

  I said loud enough for Brady to hear, “So glad, Brady. That was a sacrifice.”

  “No, he said, “it was selfish. I just couldn’t move into Jacobi’s swell office and push paper. I’m a street cop and I like being part of the action.”

  Laughter came up all around the room and it was like sunshine breaking through the clouds. Then I realized we hadn’t heard the rest of the story.

  Who was our new police chief?

  Anticipating the question, Brady said, “And that leaves the last shoe. I make it to be size eleven medium wide, currently filled by a former Homicide cop from LA and Vegas who for the last dozen years has been heading up our forensic lab, ably, with good humor. Not prideful, but we know he’s a first-class CSI.”

  It took a minute for the parts to come together, and then I got it. I had just never considered Charlie Clapper as chief of police, but damn, he was an excellent choice.

  Brady was saying, “At this point, I’m supposed to draw back the curtain and say about a former cop and highly respected forensic scientist, ‘Round of applause for our own Charlie Clapper, now police chief, SFPD.’

  “But I forgot to get a curtain, and Clapper isn’t here. He’s going to be across the street at MacBain’s — second-floor private room reserved for alla us, from noon to two. No cover charge, beer’s on the house. If there are any questions, we’ll get ya answers all in good time.”

  Conklin got to his feet and said, “Brady? If you had anything to do with recommending Clapper for the chief job, I just want to say, hot dog. Good choice and all in the family. And I’m glad you’re staying with us.”

  CHAPTER 6

  CONKLIN AND I WALKED across the street at the appointed time, still stunned by the breaking news. But pleased.

  We both liked Clapper. A lot. He was a solid pro, never a showboat. I remembered so many cases where he’d been the forensic specialist; when hamburgers had become bombs, when we dug up a dozen decapitated heads in a backyard, when he’d gone through the exploded science museum where my husband, Joe, had been almost killed. He’d taken us through crime scenes and pointed out things he thought we ought to know.

  The bottom line: Charlie Clapper had never let us down.

  Richie held the door for me at MacBain’s and we entered the favorite watering hole for Hall of Justice workers, from court stenographers to the motorcycle police. At lunchtime, the ancient jukebox was cranked up and the place was packed to the walls, but we didn’t have to look for a table. We headed straight up the stairs to the second floor, where it was clear that the party had already started. A buffet had been set up with hot plates and servers, tables were arranged around the room, and a lot of cops were in attendance, not just from Homicide but from every section at the Hall.

  Altoget
her, a hundred people were there, including Brady, everyone with a glass in their hand. I waved to Clapper as we passed and he waved back. When everyone from Lieutenant Tom Murry from Major Crimes to Lieutenant Lena Hurvitz from Special Victims to DA Len Parisi had a plate and was seated, Brady clinked his glass with a spoon.

  He had our attention. He said, “Charles Clapper, former director of our Forensics unit, needs no introduction. Most of you have hung on to his shirttails as he ran a crime scene, questioned him on the witness stand, relied on him for his wisdom when a crime was so unbearably awful you didn’t know whether to puke or bawl your eyes out.

  “Starting tomorrow morning, Charlie is going to take over as chief of police and move into the fancy office on the fifth floor. You all are stuck with me heading up Homicide.

  “Charlie, please take it from here.”

  There was applause and shouts of “Way to go, Charlie!” and a minute later Clapper had a drink in his hand. As always, Clapper was perfectly dressed, his hair cut and combed, a mirror shine on his shoes. He stood with one hand in his pocket as he said, “Thanks, everyone, for that very kind welcome to a job none of you want or would take on pain of death.”

  When the laughter died down, Charlie went on.

  “As Lieutenant Brady said, I’ve known some of you for more than fifteen years, and I’m glad that I had that much time to learn the SFPD and be of help to putting the wicked behind bars.

  “Now I’ve got a different job and the number one task the mayor has given me is to rebuild the Southern Station. Most of you have lived through the corruption of our good name. Our robbery and narcotic departments are thin. I have some major recruiting to do.

  “I’m a perfectionist. I do things by the book. That’s how I pulled CSU back from the brink and why I was drafted for this job. Here’s what it means to you. The by-the-book rules are in effect; color within the lines, button every last button, stay in your own lane. Keep thorough notes, keep your phones and radios on, and keep your eyes and ears open. Stay in touch with dispatch or your CO. I love you all, but effective immediately, love’s got nothing to do with it.

  “I have to be the enforcer.”

  CHAPTER 7

  AS THE PARTY WAS breaking up, I checked in with Lieutenant Tom Murry, head of Missing Persons.

  Tom sounded hoarse and worn-out as he told me that now that his search had passed the twenty-four-hour mark, he was expanding his canvass.

  “Tara Burke and her kiddo are still missing. We’re following every dumb-ass lead. The hounds alerted on a dead cat, but that was all. We’re running plates around the Burke house and Lucas is cooperating, has offered other places we can look. We’ll be at this all night.”

  I commiserated. Asked if he wanted any help.

  “Yes.”

  I called Joe to remind him that I was having dinner with the girls tonight, then I researched Lucas Burke. My search was limited to the internet and our police files, but there was some new background from a bio he’d given in a speech I found online.

  I learned that Lucas’s mother and sister had died when Lucas was in grad school, but his father, Evan Burke, was still alive and had not remarried. Lucas taught at Sunset Park Prep, a private girls’ school in the Sunset District. Three years ago, Burke divorced his wife of ten years and married Tara Wyatt. Lorrie was Burke’s only child.

  I highlighted names and places, saved the research into a file, and went to go find Brady.

  Brady wasn’t in his office. It was second nature to head up to the fifth floor. I asked squad assistant, Brenda Fregosi, to let Rich know I’d be back in a few.

  I found Clapper in his new office, an office I’d been in so many times I was on first-name terms with the dust bunnies under the sofa.

  I said, “Gotta minute, chief?”

  Clapper waved me in.

  Piles of papers covered his desk. There were cardboard bankers’ boxes stacked along the window wall, labeled by date in marker pen, lids taped in place.

  Those would be Clapper’s papers, yet to be filed.

  Charlie looked harried, a change from his usual benign countenance. But I got it. The man was organized. His job in Forensics had been a perfect match for his personality type.

  Brady had been overwhelmed and not organized by nature.

  It would take Clapper a few days to see the desktop and get his files up to speed.

  I pulled out a side chair and sat down.

  I briefed him on my last case in two sentences and we commiserated in one. Then, I said, “Chief, a woman came to Cindy Thomas’s office yesterday claiming that her daughter and sixteen-month-old grandchild were missing. She believes that her son-in-law is violent and could had have killed them.”

  “Thomas called you?”

  “Yep. I spoke with the complainant and I spoke with the officer in charge, Lieutenant Tom Murry, and he hasn’t turned up anything yet. Hounds are out. Drones, too. Canvass of the neighborhood and school where the husband works. Now, over twenty-four hours have passed.”

  Clapper sat back in the desk chair. He said, “I’m aware, Boxer. And know Lieutenant Murry to be thorough. What are you asking?”

  “I want to bring in the husband for questioning. See if I detect a falsehood, and maybe I can break him —”

  Clapper cut me short.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this isn’t your case.”

  “Uh.”

  “Murry interviewed the husband?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t get anything from him.”

  “Boxer, it’s Murry’s case. He’s working it. What did I say earlier today?”

  “Many things.”

  “I said stay in your lane. If your board is empty, it won’t be for long. Don’t call me, Boxer. Have Brady call me. That’s the chain of command.”

  I was insulted and hurt. I felt my cheeks heat up as I stood from the chair and went to the door. Clapper didn’t look up, didn’t say good-bye or thanks or see ya around.

  Without seeing her, I said, “Kathleen Wyatt.”

  “Bingo,” said Brenda. She made a little circle with her index finger next to her temple, universal sign for crazy.

  I clenched my fists and headed toward my desk.

  CHAPTER 8

  CLEARLY, KATHLEEN WYATT was in yesterday’s clothes.

  My guess was that she’d been driving around the city looking for her daughter and granddaughter since then. She seemed out of it, but I put it down to stress and exhaustion.

  I took her to the break room, got her coffee and a leftover donut, waited for her outside the ladies’ room.

  Given the Clapper rules, I told her that Lieutenant Murry was working the case full-bore. I quoted the record: that at ten after eleven Monday morning, Lucas called his wife from his cell phone and she answered. Their call lasted just under three minutes. Then I moved on to reassurances: that most likely Tara wasn’t ready to be found, and she would be in touch. And then I heard myself say that I would drive out to Sunset Park Prep and talk to Lucas personally to assure myself that he hadn’t hurt anyone.

  She gave me a disbelieving look.

  “Kathleen. Either trust me or leave me out of this.”

  “Okay. I trust you.”

  “Good. Go home and get some sleep.”

  I walked Kathleen down to the street, watched as she drove off in her ancient Fiat. Then I went to the day lot across Bryant and got my car out of stir. I’d thought that I had a decision to make, but I’d already made it. Something was drawing me to this case. I can’t explain it, but I felt attached and that maybe I could bring Tara and Lorrie Burke home safely.

  It was half past two. School was still in session.

  I called dispatch, told them I had to take a half day lost time, texted Rich that the less he knew the better and I’d call him later. Then I called Cindy.

  “This is so off the record, it’s in a different time zone,” I said to her.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “I’m taking a flie
r. Gonna talk to the husband. Don’t tell Richie. I’m disobeying the new chief.”

  “Love you, Linds.”

  Sunset Park Prep was located on Thirty-Seventh Avenue and Rivera Street, and this was where Lucas taught English to eleventh- and twelfth-grade girls. I knew of the school, which was reputed to offer a college-level experience in a day-school environment.

  I parked the car on Sunset Boulevard, clipped my badge to the inside pocket of my jacket, and tucked my gun into the back waistband of my chinos.

  I looked up Lucas Burke’s class schedule again — and, yes, from three to four he had an office hour in the Academic Building.

  Couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried.

  I put my phone in my breast pocket and got out of my car.

  Ready or not, Lucas Burke. Here I come.

  CHAPTER 9

  I WAS DEFYING a direct order, but I felt justified.

  In three out of four cases of familial homicide, the husband was the killer. Dozens of cases came to me; bludgeoned wives and smothered children, buried in shallow graves or put through wood chippers, entire families shot and tucked into their beds, the husband displaying grief, begging the real killer to come forward or leaving the country. Often they remarried in under a year.

  I hadn’t given up on Tara and Lorrie Burke after less than a day and a half. This was still a presumed missing persons case, even if the chance of finding the two alive was heading toward zero. I needed to get a take on Lucas Burke, the man at the center of it.

  I parked in the lot at Sunset Park Prep. The ten-acre campus had grounds like clipped green velvet. The main building was imposing, built of white stone in the early twentieth century. Athletic fields and smaller buildings stretched out beyond it.